Shifting Sands
by karebear
Summary: "As long as you wear the uniform, you owe it to yourself to figure out why." The Major Miles three-shot.
1. One Drop

His stomach dropped out when the order came down. Executive Order 3066. Miles felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold of Briggs.

"By order of the Fuhrer, any soldier of Ishvalan heritage within the Amestrian Military shall be stripped of rank and benefits and held to await trial on charge of treason against the state."

There were other words. Miles didn't read them. He couldn't get past the first sentence. He sat frozen on the edge of his bunk, the paper crumpling in his hand. He thought ' _this isn't fair._ ' He thought ' _I'm not a traitor._ ' He thought ' _fuck you, I'm Amestrian._ ' He thought (although he'd never admit it), ' _I'm scared._ '

He knew there'd been fighting between Amestris and Ishval for years, but he'd been shielded from all but scattershot news of the conflict, up here in the North. His grandfather's Ishvalan, speaks the language, says the prayers, but Miles? Miles went through most of school without making eye contact with anyone because the other kids looked at him and saw a freak.

His grandfather smacked the back of his head and called him _jaban_ , told him to hold his head high and give thanks to Ishvala for his life, not to waste it worrying about what these godless Amestrians thought. Miles glared and stomped off to do his homework, and he never believed in Ishvala and he was at least as much Amestrian as he was Ishvalan. More so.

Part of him remembers his father arguing with his grandfather: "Ishvalan _is_ Amestrian. We shouldn't have to choose." It was technically true, but practically false.

By the time Miles enlisted, the war in Ishval was in full swing, and his roommate said "you have to pick a side" and Miles said "I'm Amestrian. Look. I'm wearing the same uniform you are." He was good at his job, he followed orders, gathered intelligence, learned battlefield medicine, fired a gun. He rose through the ranks while his people were dying (Which people, though?)

Miles didn't want to lose everything, condemned for a crime he didn't commit. Miles had never fully appreciated his Ishvalan blood, but now it felt like it was burning through his veins, and he clung to it, desperately. He wore the Amestrian uniform, but his hair was too light, white rather than blond, and his skin was subtly dark (especially noticeable up here in the North, even if it wouldn't have been out of place in the Eastern District). And his eyes burned red.

And his heart hammered in his chest, and he thought: ' _Fuck. I'm Ishvalan._ ' Because even though he was more than that, he knew it was all anyone else would see.

" _stripped of rank and benefits and held to await trial_ "

"I'm Ishvalan." He said the words aloud, testing them on his tongue. He closed his eyes and listened to his grandfather's prayers.

He knew he couldn't pass for being anything else, but he also knew, in that moment, that he wouldn't want to.

" _on charge of treason against the state_ "

"you have to pick a side"

"I'm not a traitor," Miles whispered, to no one. But the Amestrian Military he swore his allegiance to has just declared that they have no allegiance to him, not anymore.

And his eyes roamed over the crumpled paper and caught the word "Alchemist" and he shivered again. He hasn't seen a ton of alchemy at work, but he's seen enough to understand what it will mean in Ishval. And he's scared. He's _scared_.

He doesn't want to make this choice. ("We shouldn't have to choose.")

He's an Amestrian. He fucking follows orders. "Any soldier of Ishvalan heritage..."

"Where are you going?" Major General Armstrong asks, when he's about to turn himself in to the MPs.

Miles frowns. He just holds out the order. Executive Order 3066.

Major General Armstrong shakes her head and says "you're under _my_ command, soldier."

"But… I'm Ishvalan?"

"And that's why I need you here."

Miles lets out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

He doesn't have to choose.


	2. Something About Shifting Sands

He can't pretend he doesn't know what's happening. While he's here sheltered by Fort Briggs, Ishval is burning. Major General Armstrong pulls the reports from Central and leaves them for him because although he doesn't want to ask, he is desperate to know, and she knows it. He reads matter-of-fact descriptions of wholesale slaughter, summarized with words like "extermination" and "cleansing," and fear freezes into hatred in his veins.

Growing up, he'd never considered himself to be Ishvalan; he carries the blood of the desert, yes, but he also carries the blood of Amestris and Drachma and even Xing. His features are an accident. He looks like his grandfather, and his mother, and not like his father or his uncles or his grandmother. It never mattered at home. It didn't matter when he enlisted and put on the uniform of the Amestrian Military and swore the Amestrian oath of office. It didn't matter then, but it matters now.

The diluted blood he carries cries out for recognition, when so much of it is spilling out, half a world away.

"Major Miles?"

Miles stands up and salutes. "Major General!"

"At ease."

Miles raises an eyebrow. He relaxes fractionally. Major General Armstrong has never looked 'at ease' in all the time he's known her. Which, to be fair, has only been a few months. But he respects her. She _saved_ him. She never directly mentions the fact that she's keeping him hidden from High Command, but the fact is hardly lost on him. Not to mention, all of Fort Briggs is complicit in this conspiracy of silence; these people are loyal to her above even the Fuhrer.

And Miles stands in her shadow, and thinks: _fuck_

Dark skin, white hair, red eyes… the blood he carries is a death sentence. Major General Armstrong keeps him out of the camps. Pure fucking _luck_ had him raised up North near the border with Drachma and his grandmother's family instead of in the Eastern sands where nothing remains of his grandfather's home.

The Major General studies him, and Miles tries not to flinch. Her blue eyes burn, like they can see straight through him. "The news from Ishval must be difficult for you to stomach." Miles swallows hard. He studies his boots. He breathes out slowly. "Major Miles, look at me," the Major General orders, almost gently. Except she isn't _gentle_ , ever, and this is still an order. Miles glances up. His red eyes meet her blue ones. "This is not a trap," she promises. "I'm not trying to get you to incriminate yourself; I'm not looking to charge you with treason. I have all the evidence I need, against you, were I inclined to use it."

Miles nods. He understands that much, at least. He still says nothing. Not for a long time. Major General Armstrong walks across the office and sits down behind her desk.

"It isn't _right_ ," Miles says, soft but sharp. His words pierce the silence of the room. Major General Armstrong looks up from her paperwork, settles back in her chair. "What they're doing isn't right. It's _wrong_. And I'm-" he stops. The Major General returns to her paperwork, after several long seconds of silence that seem to stretch into eternity. "How can I wear the uniform of the same military that's wiping out my… my family?"

"You'll remember, Major, that there are those who tried to strip that uniform from you."

"That isn't what I meant."

"Nevertheless. As long as you do wear the uniform, you owe it to yourself to figure out why."

"Why do you?" Miles practically blurts out the question, and it shocks him. It's not his place, he's here to follow her commands, not be impertinent. But it's important. And the Major General doesn't seem to mind.

No. She damn well knows she has nothing to fear from him. She isn't the type of commanding officer to be unsettled by a _question_.

She leans forward at her desk, resting on her elbows. "Amestris is fragile, attacked on all sides. You are aware that Fort Briggs is known in the military as our 'perfect defense'?" Miles nods. "So that's why. Someone has to protect the people. And I am strong enough to do that, so I do."

"Is that why you're protecting me?"

"Are you worth protecting?"

Miles considers the question. "It doesn't really seem fair that I would be kept safe when no one else who looks like me is given that option."

"Don't be a child. This world is anything but fair. You _are_ being given that option, so what are you going to do with it, Major?" Miles closes his eyes. He mutters something under his breath. "What was that?" Armstrong asks, her eyes narrowed and curious.

"It's Ishvalan, something my grandfather used to say. Something about shifting sands or… I'm not quite sure. Anyway, the point was that if you spend your time and energy trying to undo what's already been done, you'll just end up buried. So… I guess that's my answer. I can't _undo_ the… the War of Extermination. But I can make sure it never happens again."

Major General Armstrong gives a satisfied nod. She returns to her paperwork. Miles prepares a pot of coffee and sets a steaming mug of black brew down on her desk. She glances up. Her blue eyes meet his red. "For what it's worth, Major… Yes. You are worth protecting."

Miles breathes out, eyes closed, blood singing. " _Shukraan_ ," he whispers. _Thank you_.


	3. Prayer of the Refugee

"I don't really know Ishvalan. I mean, I just know a little bit. Scattered words. And I don't believe in God."

The other man sighs, leans out over the edge of the truck, stares out at the endless sands. To him, these deserts are familiar, unlike Miles, who has never set foot in them.

But to both of them, the land is haunted.

"I used to believe God was talking to me," Scar muses.

"You... don't think that anymore?"

"It's been a long time since I've heard a voice in my head. Even when I did hear it, the advice wasn't great."

Miles shakes his head, a little smile on his face. "Yeah. I'm glad you're not killing off Amestrian officers anymore."

"You were never in any danger from me."

"I know." Miles shifts position, resting his back against the cab of the truck and squinting against the light. It's so _bright_ out here, just as blinding as the snowscapes of the North. He wishes he had his goggles, but he'd abandoned those, at least for now, here in this place where his blood-red eyes mark him as belonging rather than the opposite. He's still not quite sure how to approach that new reality. Old habits die so, so hard (unlike people. People die easy.)

"The people here don't trust me," he mutters.

Scar frowns. "They look at you and see an Amestrian. A man who wears the uniform we learned to hate and fear."

"I don't _wear_ a uniform." He doesn't, not here, for the same reason he doesn't cover his eyes.

"You're telling me you're not an officer of the Amestrian Military?"

Miles sighs. "I understand your point. I just… I came here to help. I can't help if they don't trust me."

"If it's any consolation, they trust the Flame Alchemist even less."

Brigadier General Roy Mustang, who is supposedly in charge of this whole project. Who brought on Miles, and even Scar, because only an Ishvalan has any chance of being able to rebuild Ishval.

 _'They look at you and see an Amestrian.'_

Are they _wrong_? Miles himself had always loudly proclaimed himself an Amestrian, at least until the day almost a decade ago, when Executive Order 3066 had declared him Ishvalan-enough. Ishvalan-enough to have to hide it. Ishvalan-enough to be fully aware of the weight of that responsibility, now that there are so few of them left. A few thousand, maybe, scattered throughout the wild desert and the slums of Amestris and the ruins of Xerxes.

What use will he be, trying to rebuild a culture he knows nothing about? He watches Scar, still hanging half out of the truck. "What are you looking for?"

"Not looking. Just… appreciating." Miles frowns. Scar sighs. " _Look_ ," he says, and Miles tries.

"All I see is sand."

"Look at the way the dunes form, the color differences. That'll teach you about wind, and water. You'll learn to pick out where the animals are, where the plants grow. And… if it looks like sand, that in itself means the land is healing. In many places, even still, you will find burn scars."

Miles nods his understanding, and lapses into a solemn quiet. Well, he never thought this would be easy.

"Teach me something," he says to Scar.

The other man frowns, turning away from the shifting sands to look at Miles. "What?"

"I just… I never listened, when my grandfather wanted to teach me, and I feel really shitty about that now. So teach me something."

"'Ishvala, you who created the world, spark in me the light of the rising sun, that I may do your works this day, so that your glory might shine among the people.' It sounds better in Ishvalan. But you should understand what you're saying."

But Miles surprises Scar by repeating the prayer in Ishvalan. Not perfectly, a lot of his pronunciation is off, he's doing it phonetically, there's no flow, he skips syllables and sometimes whole words. But he'd grown up hearing it, nearly every day. "I never knew what it meant," he admits. "I never asked."

Scar doesn't usually smile, but he smiles at Miles. "Ishvala forgives imperfect pronunciation. And the arrogance of youth. The fact that you listened enough to get that much… some part of you _was_ trying, Miles."

"For all the good it did."

"Ishvala also understands guilt. And forgives much more than imperfect pronunciation."

"He died while I… _hid_. Inside the fucking military that killed him. I didn't even _try_ to save him." Scar settles back against the side paneling of the truck and waits for Miles to keep talking. He understands this kind of confession; when a man just needs to get something off his chest, let it out into the air, so it can heal. Scar hasn't had anyone in his life that he would trust to hear such a thing from him, but Miles… for whatever reason, Miles looks to him for understanding. So Scar will try to understand. Miles closes his eyes and breathes out slowly. When he speaks again, his eyes are still closed. "I didn't understand what was happening, at first. I didn't _let_ myself understand. By the time I realized what was happening in the camps…" he just shakes his head. "I thought they'd be safe. Safer, anyway. They weren't in the war zone. They were Amestrian citizens. At least they used to be."

"You were reluctant to think ill of your leaders."

"I guess."

"It is a blind spot not unique to Amestris." Miles frowns, and Scar continues. "There are those who believed that the bloodshed in Ishval could have been prevented. If our leadership had been stronger, if they had spoken up against the violence, if they had done more to appease the Amestrian occupiers…"

"But… shifting sands."

"Indeed. There's no undoing what's already been done." Scar rests his hand on his knee, and reaches up to massage at the tense muscles in his neck. "You told me once you wanted to change how Amestrians view Ishvalans. That's why you stayed in the military."

"Yeah."

"Do you think you might also be able to change the way Ishvalans view Amestrians?"

Miles whistles softly. "That's a tall order."

"A worthwhile one?"

"I changed your mind, didn't I?"

"You and many others. I am grateful, Miles. And the people here will be too, I think."

Miles nods. He leans over the side of the truck, looking for the patterns Scar insists are visible in the sand. Soon enough, he can see the first hint of the camp, familiar Amestrian military tents that should make him feel at home. He glances back at Scar.

"You ready for this?"

"I was once exiled from this land, and it's your home, if you want it. Even if you've never been here. Between us, we should be able to figure it out, don't you think?"

"Well, we can't possibly make things any worse, can we?"

"I suppose not." Scar takes a deep breath of desert air, and jumps off the back of the truck. "Might as well go make things better, then."


End file.
